


snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow

by spinsterette



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Deepthroating, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Quentin, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23838034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinsterette/pseuds/spinsterette
Summary: Quentin is feeling insecure after a night out. Eliot reassures him.AKACan I offer you some pornography in these trying times?
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 18
Kudos: 120





	snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in a world where Eliot and Q have been together since Eliot was un-Monster’d. No such thing as a seam, never heard of her.

“Are you really doing this right now?” Eliot asks tiredly into the vanity mirror of their ensuite bathroom. Quentin can see him removing his makeup with a damp cloth through the open door, going through his nightly skincare routine.

“Doing what?” Quentin calls back from their bedroom, passive-aggressive and obviously doing this right now. He starts undoing the buttons of his shirt, his irritability making his fingers clumsy.

Eliot lets out a frustrated huff, braces himself against the bathroom counter, and pivots to stare at him pointedly. “Trying to pick a fight.”

It makes him defensive on instinct, but truthfully, Quentin doesn’t know what his goal is here. There had been tension between them in the Uber ride that had only intensified once they had made it home. And it was entirely Quentin’s fault, _naturally_. 

The night had started off well enough. They had gone out to celebrate a mutual friend's birthday, ending up at a trendy cocktail lounge downtown. At first, Quentin had been fine. He made polite conversation, caught up with the birthday girl, danced a little with Eliot after some light bullying, did shots with the group. As the night had winded down though, he began to cycle through old insecurities, melancholy gnawing at him around the edges. He felt himself closing off from everything but was powerless to stop it.

It’s just that sometimes, when Quentin is out with Eliot, he can’t help but feel inadequate. Even after all this time, Quentin was still in awe of him. Eliot, his _devastatingly handsome Eliot_ , radiated sophistication and poise from his very core. He was a natural in a crowded bar, effortlessly personable and charming in a way that reminded Quentin he never would be. It made him feel like a first year at Brakebills all over again. Although he knew it was just his anxiety—he _knew_ it—he could practically feel people’s eyes on him, questioning his relationship, questioning how Eliot Waugh could possibly end up with a sad bore like Quentin Coldwater. 

He was pretty sure he had been staring off into space when Eliot offered to go to the bar and order them another round. He had nodded indifferently. Eliot touched him lightly on the shoulder as he turned to walk away, leaving Quentin alone, surrounded by a bunch of acquaintances that he couldn’t muster the energy to engage with. The music turned suffocating and loud. His unease clawed at his ribcage, attempting to scratch its way up his throat and consume everything. 

Eliot couldn’t have been gone for longer than ten minutes, but Quentin couldn’t stand to sit there any longer, couldn’t stand to take up space. He got up and fumbled his way to the bar, pushing passed bodies and trying to avoid eye contact. 

When he spotted Eliot, Quentin was abruptly paralyzed. He was rapt in conversation with an attractive man, whose hand lingered on the small of Eliot’s back. The man was shorter than Eliot, fit, and definitely older, with a strong jawline, salt-and-pepper hair and an expensive-looking suit. Eliot threw his head back and laughed at something that must have been just _hilarious_ and reached out to touch one of the lapels of his jacket. Quentin noticed the way he eyed Eliot with intent, how he angled himself toward him. 

He also noticed that they were two people who looked like they actually belonged together.

Quentin was _burning_. He felt his pulse rage as he watched Eliot lean down and say something in the older man’s ear, fanning the flames. Eliot had turned then, catching Quentin’s gaze. He must have seen something there, as he quickly excused himself from his new friend and walked toward him, leaving their drinks at the bar.

“Hey, Q, what’s up?” he asked. He carefully rubbed a hand up and down Quentin’s arm, brow furrowed.

Quentin had had to fight to remain composed, his hands twitching at his sides. “Nothing,” he lied, already disgusted with himself. “Can we leave?”

They did leave, but, of course, he couldn’t drop it. When did he ever just drop it? He _had_ to be an asshole. He was always such an asshole.

On the way home, Eliot had tried to grab his hand in the car, and before he could process what he was doing, he jerked away. The look of hurt that flashed across Eliot’s face had made him feel instantly guilty, but since he’d already committed to ruining the evening, he began needling Eliot about the man from the bar (while trying to seem as unaffected as possible).

_“Who was your friend at the bar?”_

_“Oh, you just seemed to be getting along well, that’s all.”_

_“What were you talking about? It looked like you were having a good time.”_

Eliot had given him curt, disinterested answers to his questions, willfully ignoring Quentin’s implication. They had spent the rest of the trip in silence, walked up to their apartment in silence, and now they were getting ready for bed in silence. Or they had been. Quentin is barely trying to conceal his foul mood anymore, whipping off his clothes and slinging them harder than he meant to into the hamper ( _his_ hamper—Eliot insisted his dirty laundry be kept separate because he didn’t trust Quentin to wash them). Alice would have given in already, kicked him out to sleep on the couch.

“I’m not trying to start a fight,” Quentin says back in the present, trying to start a fight.

Eliot’s looking back into the mirror, rubbing something onto his face with a cotton pad. Endlessly patient with Quentin’s bullshit, he says, “Quentin, my love, I think we should know each other well enough by now that you must know that I wouldn’t sleep with someone else.” He adds with a wry smile, “Not without your permission.” 

Quentin rolls his eyes, unamused. He’s leaning against their dresser now, arms crossed and fuming, stripped down to his boxers. He hears the sink cut on and off again, then the swishing sounds of Eliot brushing his teeth.

 _Why did he care about this so much?_ Quentin had always been prone to jealousy if he was being honest. It seared through him now, making him petty and weak and miserable. Worse yet, he was a hypocrite; he was the one who had asked Eliot to share him in a past life. He knew, like, intellectually, there was nothing going on between Eliot and this random bar patron. In theory, he doesn’t even have a problem with Eliot fucking other people. Eliot was a natural flirt, and Quentin knew this, accepted this. But, _god_ —in practice? Anytime Eliot got close to someone, Quentin would pitifully combust, whether it was: the parade of Eliot’s conquests at Brakebills, the locksmith from the village near the mosaic, Mike, the King of Loria, some guy named Raymond who gave bad head (or so he was told), Margo (only rarely nowadays), or Penny (because of a dream he had once).

Ever since the monster was defeated, Quentin has been worse than ever, indulging in his most toxic tendencies. It’s a new possessiveness that he feels of Eliot, a need to hold on and never let go. Never let anyone near him again. Keep him away from the world in their walk-up apartment in Brooklyn, just the two of them. The thought of losing Eliot again was both overwhelming and terrifying.

At least he could recognize his own bad behavior?

So, he knows that he should stop. He gets that. Go to sleep. He’ll feel differently in the morning, he _knows_ how this works.

Eliot removes him from his thoughts. “Look, like I said before, he’s just some guy that I knew from before Brakebills. We were only catching up.” He leans indolently against the bathroom opening, hand on hip. He’s in just his underwear and a silky open robe, face fresh and glasses on. The shitty, selfish part of Quentin is thrilled that only he gets to see Eliot like this, with all of the artifice stripped away.

“Some guy?” Unhelpfully, his mind replays the way that that guy had brushed against Eliot and how Eliot had just let him. “You were pretty, uh, touchy-feely with him for just some guy.” 

God, make him _shut up._

“Yeah, some guy, Q,” Eliot spits back. “It may shock you to realize, but I had a life before I got involved with you and your friends and the never ending task of saving the world from the apocalypse.” 

He’s right. Of course, he’s right. 

Now that Eliot is done trying to placate him, all of the nastiness that had been inhabiting him bleeds out, replaced rapidly by shame. His eyes sting, hot tears threatening to spill over, and he hates that feeling more than anything.

“I’m sorry,” he says, shoulders sagging. “I didn’t mean to get so worked up. I don’t--I don’t, um, think you’re cheating on me. I never thought that, really.” He moves his arms to hug himself. “I know I’m being stupid.”

Eliot doesn’t respond right away, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. He lets a breath out through his nose. Then—

“Come here,” Eliot says softly, opening his arms. 

Quentin moves toward him readily, and then he’s collapsing into his embrace. He buries his face in his chest, would burrow inside of him completely if he could, and breathes in deeply, Eliot’s scent always like a cooling balm. Eliot holds the back of his head and presses a kiss to his hair. For the first time tonight, he feels like everything isn’t the worst.

“I’m yours, Q,” Eliot says into his hair. “You are the most beautiful man I've ever met, in every way. I mean it.” He squeezes Quentin in his arms as if for emphasis and sighs. “I don't want anyone but you, ever. Honestly, I think of you when I masturbate, it’s pathetic.”

That gets a laugh out of Quentin, who sniffles and looks up at Eliot, who is already looking back, eyes bright. Suddenly he’s aware of his body and how he’s being held flush against Eliot, mostly skin-to-skin. A tight ball of longing coils in his gut and vibrates outward. He wants Eliot, like he always wants him. He reaches up, helpless, wrapping his arms around his neck, and then he’s on his toes, claiming Eliot’s lips. 

It’s gentle at first, but that isn’t what Quentin needs, not after being so wound up for most of the night. He pushes past Eliot’s lip, tries his best to devour him. His hands feel restless, so he gropes at Eliot’s chest, over his hard nipples, across his lean stomach, and then he grips at his hips, grinding them together in a way that makes Eliot groan into his mouth. They gasp apart, resting forehead against forehead, sharing each other’s warm breath for a beat.

Quentin feels feverish, heat spreading in waves, and in a rash decision, he shoves Eliot backward, pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed. For a moment, he’s in a daze, frankly surprised by his own boldness. He’s not typically the one who’s doing the pushing and pulling in bed. But then Eliot is giving him that lascivious smile that he only makes when Quentin does something unexpected, and then Quentin’s in his lap, kissing him again.

“Fuck, baby,” Eliot sighs hotly against his skin. He’s cradling Quentin’s head in his hands as he’s dragging his mouth against his jawline and down his neck, his teeth barely scraping against him. 

Quentin whimpers; he can’t stand the tenderness of it all. He fists his hands into Eliot’s robe and ruts down into his lap, the friction lighting him up. He’s desperate for him, already breathing hard, heart pounding and full. “Unffhhh, El. Fuck.”

“Q, what do you need?”

“I need you,” he replies without a thought.

“You have me. Fuck, you have me,” Eliot says, breathless, moving to smooth his hands up Quentin’s back. And he _does_ have him, completely. Quentin’s lips are skimming across Eliot’s collarbone, biting and sucking. He whines at the thought of what he really wants from Eliot tonight, and, well, since he’s being bold….

He pulls away, and then he’s slowly descending to his knees, deliberately locking eyes with Eliot---and _fuck_ , his eyes are dark, hooded, and so _so_ lovely. With Eliot grinning down at him, he removes the elastic from around his wrist and shifts to tie his hair back and out of the way. 

“Oh, so this is what you need, darling?” Eliot asks, palming himself through his underwear. 

He nods emphatically, sure that he must be red from head to toe. Quentin feels like he’s starving for his cock, dizzy, and he pushes Eliot’s hand out of the way, making him laugh. In the next moment, he’s moaning, however, as Quentin nuzzles and mouths at the long line of him through the fabric of his underwear. The sharp, masculine smell of him has Quentin salivating. When he pulls away, he fixates on the wet spot he’s left behind, staring at it open-mouthed and heavy-eyed, his own dick twitching. He blows on the dampness, earning a hiss from Eliot.

“Jesus fuck, Q,” he pants, bringing his knuckles to caress the side of Quentin’s face.

Lightheaded, Quentin peels back Eliot’s underwear carefully, springing free his cock, which is heavy and hot when he takes him in his hand. While stroking him gently, Quentin licks patterns across his considerable length, humming. Finally, blissfully, his lips wrap around the head of Eliot’s dick, and he _sucks_ , cheeks hollow, while Eliot lightly traces the contours of his temple, cheek, jawline with his thumb. He has no real thoughts, his head full of nothing but Eliot, being good for Eliot. 

Eliot’s hands fly to his hair, sinking his fingers around Quentin’s small bun, encouraging him, as he starts to bob his head in earnest. Quentin can hear himself making embarrassing, satisfied little sounds, but he’s unbothered. He’s enthusiastic, sloppily taking Eliot over and over, needing more, needing him deeper, needing all of him. He releases Eliot’s cock with a slick pop, taking a moment to catch his breath, but he quickly dives back in, taking him almost entirely, gagging. Eliot shudders around him, letting out a sharp sob, and tugs at Quentin’s hair. Spurred by the reaction, he swallows him down again, holds himself there, and Jesus, it’s so _much,_ the stretch, the fullness. His tongue darts out, straining to reach for the rest of him. When he finally pulls off, chest heaving, Eliot’s cock is dripping. 

“ _Eliot ,_ ” he mewls.

As he labors to refill his lungs, Quentin deftly forms the tuts for the spell that suspends his gag reflex, a personal favorite, all the while maintaining eye contact. Eliot shudders again, swearing, and bends over to pull him into a kiss, filthy and wet and open. Then Quentin’s plunging down again, determined, taking Eliot to his hilt again and again, challenging himself to hold his breath longer and longer. 

Eliot yanks Quentin off of his cock by the hair, pulling a trail of saliva with him and stinging his scalp in a way that shoots down his spine. Quentin instinctively chases after him, his tongue out, ready. Eliot wrenches his hair back and holds him there, forcing him to look up, to focus. He says something, but Quentin doesn’t really hear him at first.

“Q.” Eliot closes his fist over his own dick, pumps a few times, and then rubs himself against Quentin’s face, smearing spit and pre-come over his cheek. Quentin shivers and makes a small, strangled sound in response. “Whose cock is this, hm?” 

Quentin has lost the ability to think. “Um, uh,” he tries and fails.

“That’s not an answer, baby.” Eliot shakes Quentin’s head back and forth by the hair, and it’s enough to cut through Q’s stupor. “Q, sweetheart, whose cock is this?”

The answer comes, ripping out of him. “Mine,” he rasps. _Mine._

“Mm, that’s right,” Eliot responds, petting his free hand along Quentin’s throat now, slow and soothing. “And whose throat is this?”

Quentin swallows hard, trembling. “Yours,” he answers, his voice rough but brimming with devotion. 

Eliot lets out a genuine growl and slides back into his mouth, Quentin taking him easily. With a fistful of hair, he drags Quentin back and forth, fucking him shallowly and lazily, while Quentin desperately works his tongue. Then Eliot’s burying himself in his airway, and all Quentin can think about while looking up through wet lashes at a blurry Eliot is _fuck, I love him_. He can feel the drool leaking from his open mouth and down his chin and neck. Holding him in place by the head, Eliot starts fucking into him, fighting to stay on the bed.

Eliot grunts and says, “I have an idea,” and then he’s moved away. 

Quentin starts to protest, but before he can say anything, he’s being hauled up and pleasantly manhandled into laying face-up on the bed, head lolling off the side. Quentin knows what’s coming next, is _dying,_ he’s so eager for it. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, Eliot._ His hands actually shake with the need to stroke his own dick, its aching throbs making it difficult to still his hips.

Quentin lets Eliot do this only because he trusts him. With his life. With his heart. More than anyone else. He struggles to recall how he got so worked up earlier.

“Touch yourself for me, ” Eliot orders.

He doesn’t need to be told twice this time. Taking his dick out of his boxers, he begins sliding his hand along it slowly, the relief instant and so fucking _good_. Eliot’s petting the side of his face, and anticipation buzzes in his head.

“Remember to tap on my thigh if you need air.”

And then Eliot is fucking his throat.

He’ll probably feel this tomorrow, but that’s what he wants. He thinks of how he must look right now to Eliot, and he shivers, as the cries coming from Eliot become progressively more debauched. Then there’s the obscene slick sounds his throat is making, and _god_ , it’s gross, but it only turns him on more—and fuck, _fuck,_ with the thought of the way his entire face must be glossy with his own spit and snot and tears—it’s so _messy,_ jesus, he’s sopping—he’s not going to last much longer. He jerks his dick frantically as his throat convulses. _Use me, use me, usemeusemeusemeusemefuckfuckfuckfuck_. He’s woozy, but it’s more than just oxygen deprivation. 

Eliot comes down his throat with a savage groan. When he pulls away after thrusting a few more times, Quentin is gasping for air like he’d been drowning. He feels like a cloud, foggy and floating. Eliot backs away, and then he’s maneuvering Quentin’s body onto the bed so that his head is supported. He grabs him a pillow from near the headboard, gently picks his head up, and slips it underneath.

“Are you okay, my love?” Eliot asks, as he leans down to place a kiss on his crown and sit next to him.

Quentin can’t form words, just moans weakly.

Eliot’s smile is _so_ smug as he wraps his hand firmly around Quentin to finish jacking him off, and it’s not long until his orgasm hits, white-hot, reverberating through his body. 

Eliot’s hand is covered in his come, and he brings it to Quentin's lips and asks, teasing, “Should I let you have this?” Quentin whines. “It’s mine after all, isn’t it? Didn’t we decide that?”

 _Fucking—is he going to beg for his own come?_ He’s so gone.

“Please, El, shit please.” He’s sticking out his tongue, delirious.

Eliot gives in, grinning, and lets Quentin take his hand and lick it clean, finger by finger. When he’s finally finished, Eliot leans down and kisses him sweetly. He pats Quentin’s thigh as he sits up. 

“Okay, I’m going to go grab you a towel. You somehow seem to have gotten a little something on your face, dear,” he says, and he disappears into the bathroom.

Quentin rolls his eyes, but he feels warm everywhere, his body still spasming with aftershocks.

____________________________

“Make up sex truly is the best sex,” Eliot says later in the dark, as they cuddle close under the sheets. Quentin is resting his head on Eliot’s shoulder, fingers playing in his sporadic chest hair, while Eliot combs a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

Quentin hums in reply.

“I wanted to apologize to you, too, Q.” Quentin jerks his head up to look at him. _What_ ? _No_. “I noticed when you weren’t enjoying the party. I should have asked if you wanted to leave earlier. I was being selfish.”

“No, no, Eliot, I’m an adult. Like, I should have said something, um, or I could have left and you could have stayed.” He places his palm on the side of Eliot’s cheek, rubs his thumb back and forth under his eye. “I really do trust you. I swear.”

Eliot grasps his hand, threading their fingers together and moving them to lay over his heart.

“Thanks,” he says seriously. Then less seriously, “So I didn’t want to tell you this out of spite, but the guy at the bar was married. Yes, he was interested in me in the past, but I rebuffed his advances pretty brutally. So, if you saw any flirting, it was completely one-sided. As I think you may be well aware, I prefer to be the daddy in the relationship.”

Quentin laughs. “God, I am definitely bringing this up in therapy.”

“You being a dick or the throat fucking?”

Just being reminded of it makes him shiver with phantom sensation. He resettles next to Eliot, closer than before. “The first thing, obviously.”

“Mm, sounds like a plan,” Eliot says, closing his eyes, that being that.

Later as he’s drifting off, he’s not reflecting on the day’s fuck-ups, not agonizing over the future, not thinking of anything really. Everything is Eliot, warm, pressed against him and snoring softly. He's struck by how lucky he is to have him, to have someone who makes him feel known yet loved anyway.

He sleeps like a fucking baby.

**Author's Note:**

> I hardly ever write, but I've had a lot of time on my hands?? Let me know what you think!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @thebeautifulspinster.


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